


The Flood

by VictoriaBlaze



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood and Violence, Child Death, Graphic Description, Intimacy, Language, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25377493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaBlaze/pseuds/VictoriaBlaze
Summary: In the realm of Akkadia, in the small village of Nippur, Aziraphale worked as Principality to the whole of the First Kingdom while under the guise of a simple scribe. He enjoyed the mostly peaceful assignment since Adam and Eve were cast out of Eden, until one day when he received a visitation from the Principality Imamiah. Tasked with an historic Edict for Noah (a role typically given to higher-tiered angels than a he), Imamiah came to Aziraphale for guidance and was treated instead to an intimate look at the beauty of the village he grew to call home.This is Imamiah's first story, taking place in Mesopotamia at the start of the Great Flood.Content Warning: child death, language, blood and violence, torture, intimacy, graphic descriptions
Kudos: 2





	The Flood

Aziraphale stared blankly at the slab of clay in front of him. His stylus hovered in the air beside him, turning lazily. It had started out as such a good day. There had been the most glorious sunrise, rather heavy on the reds, but She did seem fond of those these days. Ili-Idinnam and his wife had dropped by in the morning with a pot of pigeon stew and a basket of honey flatbreads as payment for his help with their wheat order. Then, as he’d been collecting a bucket of water from the spring – a quick miracle was so much easier, but the neighbours did start to look strangely if one didn’t carry out such mundane tasks – the surface had shimmered and a Voice had Spoken Unto him. There was to be a visitation; a fellow Principality was set to arrive with a Heavenly Edict. The last part in particular had left him feeling uneasy. Not that it wouldn’t be a nice change to see another of his kin, as it had been quite a while, but proclamations never seemed to be good news, and the air had a strange, heavy feel.  
At present, he was supposed to be drafting a missive for the brickmaker Xissuthros, demanding the man’s neighbour stop using their clay pit for… unspecified assignations… and he was quite unable to make a start on the thing. For one, the pictograms the artisan had suggested were quite graphic, but mostly, the sense of looming trouble had his mind chasing itself in circles like a stray dog after its own tail. Coming to the conclusion that nothing would get done simply by staring at the clay and twiddling his stylus, the Principality sighed in defeat and decided a walk was a much better use of his afternoon. Getting up from the worn stool at his workbench, he stretched and headed for the door, only to find a body standing there. The man in his doorway seemed lost, but not entirely uncertain of himself.

“I think…” the stranger began, assessing both the scribe and the interior of his home, “this is the correct place? Aren’t you Aziraphale?”

It took a moment for Aziraphale to recognise his visitor, and then he beamed, unable to hide the warmth of fraternity - or whatever the right word was for the siblinghood of angels. “It’s… Imamiah, isn’t it? Good hea-Heavens. It’s been a while.”

The angel produced a hand to his fellow celestial, reflexively offering assistance with the half-step down into his studio. Imamiah reached and then hesitated, curling his fingers in with a small laugh that paired with the slightest blush. “Oh, I-I do apologize. Human assuetude seems to have taken my sense from me,” Aziraphale withdrew, tucking his insidious hands behind his back so that they may not incite trouble again. While he had lived among the mortals for several centuries now, no amount of time or distance from Heaven should have stolen his recollection of the primary tenet of principalities: You who are Conduits of Her Divine Love must never share in touch. 

Clearing his throat and gesturing for the man to enter instead, Aziraphale renewed his inviting smile. “Please, come in, and mind the step down. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Stepping into the cool shade of the mud-brick atelier, the man gave his angelic compatriot a wide smile. Aziraphale noted that Imamiah’s corporation blended better with the natives of the First Kingdom than others he’d seen in the last two thousand years. The man was bronze in feature with ringlets of dark hair, his visage handsomely shaped in much the same way as the wind sculpts the desert dunes with cut lines and gentle slopes. He was clothed in a simple tunic-swathe, draped and tied as a worker may dress and dyed a classic shade of green. Though, if Aziraphale were being honest, it could have done with more trim.

“Certainly you were informed of my appearance? I thought you would know that it was me arriving, at least,” he grinned. They had always been pleasant to one another in passing Upstairs, though they couldn’t say one knew much about the other besides names and vague office-talk acquaintance. 

“I did receive notification this morning, yes, although I do think we could manage something more subtle than flaming vegetation and singing rivers…” Aziraphale hesitated, cutting his eyes upwards towards the ceiling and the Celestial circles that lay elsewhere. “Not that I’m criticising, you understand. But the humans are very susceptible to portents, and it’s difficult to help them when they’re panicking that a goat walked backwards three weeks ago, or they saw a strange locust in their morning broth.”

Imamiah laughed. The sound still echoed Her closeness, and that sunny tintinnabulation stung Aziraphale as the Heavenly undertones reminded him of just how long he’d been away from Her Presence. The visitor looked up at the ceiling and then at his fellow Principality. “The reeds can’t hear you, you know. It’s fine for us to discuss things together. I agree, we can really only do so much. But soon, quite a lot of communication with the mortal realm will be easier, or so I’ve heard. Some of the other principalities are supposedly doing great things elsewhere on Earth, which I hope is the reason why I will be taking over this area for now and you will be relocating.”

“Relo-” Aziraphale blinked, then looked around his small, but comfortable house. It wasn’t much - plain white walls, rushes on the floor - but he’d come to be quite fond of the place, and his neighbours, with their peculiarities and their squabbles, and their wonderful, powerful flashes of love, like summer lightning. “Is that entirely necessary?”

“I should think so, given what’s coming,” Imamiah grimaced. The feeling of weight in the air multiplied into a leaden pressure. _Given what’s coming._ Aziraphale’s expression darkened as his mind raced, searching for the proper question to garner an answer he suddenly prayed he would not receive. What was coming? There had been sickness to the North, but it had all but burned itself out. Had that only been an overture to some more deadly plague? Surely if that were the case, he would be needed. Humans were so very fragile. His guest shifted uncomfortably as the scribe’s gaze continued around his home, alighting on each object and recounting the histories of them with a sudden crystalline recollection that tugged at his heart, sinking it deeper down into his gut. 

The visitor’s brow knit with disquiet. “I apologize,” the man cautiously intoned, “you were heading out when I interrupted. Is there somewhere you need to be? It will be a few days before you have to depart, and I’d imagine this is all very sudden for you. I can answer any questions later, if you… if you need some time?” Aziraphale knew the man was only trying to soften the blow of whatever Edict he had clutched to his metaphorical breast, but a closed fist was still a fist. The impact would come, regardless of the mercy of its herald. Somberly, he returned to his desk and draped a damp cloth over the clay, though he had a nasty suspicion that it wouldn’t be needed. 

“I was going to take a turn around the village,” he turned, mustering a touch of genuine cheer and no small amount of feigned geniality to accompany it. “Kalumum and Asharru recently had a child, and she’s simply _delightful_. We could drop in on them. Take them some figs.”

“Figs?” Imamiah repeated, a small hint of confusion on his face.

Struck by the angel’s innocent query, Aziraphale earnestly brightened and nodded enthusiastically. “You’ve never tried one? My dear Imamiah, they’re delicious. Truly, Her bounty is unparalleled.” He retrieved a small bowl from a niche in the north wall, which stayed coolest in the heat of the day, and proffered it to the other Principality. “Try one. They’re very sweet.”

“I’ve… never eaten anything,” he chuckled, reaching for the fruit within the bowl. He withdrew a plump specimen and examined it as a jeweler would assess a precious metal. “Gabriel would have something to say on this, I’m sure.” Pausing briefly, he took a small, timid bite from the bell of the dark purple fruit. He closed his eyes in thought, his expression twirling in a waltz of mystification and excitement as he partook in an entirely new experience. After a few moments of curious rumination, he swallowed.

“It’s… I don’t even know what to make of it. It’s so… different. What would you call this flavour?”

A small, somewhat mischievous smile quirked Aziraphale’s mouth, and he found a small hessian bag into which he conscientiously placed the remaining figs, mindful not to bruise the soft flesh. “It’s rather hard to explain to someone who’s never eaten before. Flavour is...well, it’s all comparable to other flavours, and one seldom experiences those if one eschews food. But these are sweet, and rich, and taste a little like honey, and the fragrance of the air after rain.” He tied the bag to the belt of his robe and led the way out into the sunshine, pulling back the light curtain over the doorway meant to keep out the insects.

“Shall we go?”

“You lead,” Imamiah grinned, his eyes lingering on the bag attached to Aziraphale’s waist as they started down the well-beaten lane. The Principality hadn’t missed his fellow’s speculative glance at the remaining figs, and he hid a small, secret smile. If only Heaven could understand the joys of the human experience, things would be so much easier.

They walked in comfortable silence towards the edge of the village, following a road that snaked between homes like an ambling river, periodically cut by long, merciful shadows from the taller buildings along the way. The hot light of midday baked the land, suffusing the air with a thick, rich taste. The visitor took a long, deep breath and held it like wine in his mouth. “There is great beauty here,” he finally said, pausing with Aziraphale to let a small gang of children run uproariously past, sticks gripped tightly in their hands and outstretched like swords.

Aziraphale watched the children tumble chaotically down the street, sending dust up in clouds and scattering a few sulky-looking fowls that were scratching in a scrubby patch of grass. “ _Seḫḫeru addānika!_ ” he called after them, amiably, and shook his head at their answering laughter. “They are… fascinating, aren’t they? It’s like watching seeds growing… mysteries that bloom into the strangest, most wonderful flowers.”

“I would be a fool to disagree,” Imamiah nodded, watching the little troupe round a corner, their bubbling cacophony dying off the further they played. “There were quite a lot of them in that party. This place… it’s much larger than I’d imagined.”

As they continued along, the man couldn’t help but reach out and drag his fingertips along a crack in the wall of a large domicile. Aziraphale watched the casual stroke of his hand, remembering the bliss of discovering every perfectly imperfect quirk and crease of Eden. Heaven was smooth. Streamlined. The complex beauty of Earth’s coarseness was something that could not be described to another angel, and even after two thousand years on the mortal plane, he still found himself quite often struck with silence by the awe of Her Creation. The visitor drew his hand from the split in the clay wall, examining the russet dust at his fingertips with deep appreciation.

“This is my first time on Earth, and in a body,” Imamiah admitted quietly, bringing a finger up to his tongue and tasting the dust. He scowled. “Not sweet.”

“I recommend not sampling everything, dear boy. Not unless you know what it is.” Aziraphale made a sympathetic face. “I’ve fallen foul of that myself. Here…” He turned aside and bustled away down a narrow side street, holding up a hand to stall his companion from following along. A minute later, he was back, holding a slice of juicy melon in a swatch of clean linen. “This should clear the palate,” he proffered to Imamiah.

Taking the glistening fruit in his uncalloused hands, the angel eyed it with trepidation. It shimmered in the hot afternoon sun like a half-piece of clean gold. Bringing it to his nose, he took a deep inhale and then pulled it away quickly in surprise.

“It… that’s… I don’t know what that is…” Cautiously, Imamiah drew it forward again and licked it.

“You can bite it, you know…” Aziraphale waved encouragingly towards the fruit. “It’s good, really.” He noticed a group of women looking their way and beamed at them, hoping they weren’t too bemused at the sight of the dark-haired stranger tonguing an innocent piece of fruit. “ _E šulmu akki,_ sisters. How goes the day?”

One of the group, her bare shoulder darker than the figs and gleaming in the sun from a suggestion of alluring oils massaged into her soft skin, waved back. “Better for your favour, _lamassu._ Are you and your friend going to visit us?” Aziraphale blushed, and made a gesture that was met with laughter. The woman opened her mouth to extend a more formal invitation and then paused, quirking an eyebrow in a strange way as her gaze hopped from Aziraphale to the man beside him. Turning, he saw Imamiah had taken several messy bites and was proceeding to lick the melon’s juice from his fingers. The gaggle of women tittered like flustered birds as he cleaned his hand, his eyes closed in bliss at the taste of the exquisite fruit.

“This is quite something,” he noised through a mouthful of fingers and melon flesh. Swallowing, he offered the remainder of the piece to his fellow Principality. “Would you like some? I’m afraid I may eat it all if you don’t.”

The other angel’s pleasure was almost palpable, and Aziraphale gave a little hum of delight. If there was one thing better than the taste of sweet food, it was the knowledge that such joy had been shared.

“Not at all… do finish it. There’s a nice old fellow in the Street of Brass that sells all manner of fruit. We’ll call by on our way back and you can pick something up to take with you. Come on. It’s not far to Kalumum’s home. The sun is awfully strong, and it’ll be lovely in their little yard at this time of day.”

Nodding, Imamiah waved a sticky hand at the now-blushing ladies and followed after Aziraphale as they continued towards the end of the lane. The well-tread road finally ceased at a lovely earthen clay home, nestled at the foot of a small verdant rise. A large, deep-green scrub tree loomed over the home, shading a section of the desert grasses with its knotted limbs. A dog ran round from the back, alerting its master of the men’s arrival with an upheaval of enthusiastic barking.

Jumping back in alarm, Imamiah dropped the melon rind and stepped sideways behind the other angel, attempting to make himself smaller without outright cowering. He made a sharp, startled sound not unlike a chirrup twisted around a whistle, too afraid to linguistically follow through with anything more intelligible. The instinctive utterance was something Aziraphale had not heard since his days in Eden, and he clipped his head to the side sharply in surprise, his expression light and wondrous. It was only a sound, a meager token from their elemental angelic language, but the innocence and purity of it warmed his heart and he responded in kind, soothing the anxious man with a gently trilling croon that bloomed more from his chest than from his throat.

Turning back to the animal, Aziraphale spread his arms wide in a placating motion. “Now… _salāmu,_ Barbar. You know me, boy, don’t you?” The dog’s excitement was undiminished, and it greeted the angels with another volley of high-pitched yelps, then tore away towards the back of the house like a hairy herald. Aziraphale chuckled pleasantly. “Quite harmless, I assure you. Nothing like the wolves to which it calls kin, but the new baby _does_ have him in something of a quandary, I think. It’s hard to know what’s going on in the minds of Her other Creations.” He offered Imamiah a reassuring smile and beckoned him to follow where the dog had gone before. 

At the rear of the low, blocky building, a patch of ground had been screened off with wooden poles and woven rushes, topped with a mesh of gharab shoots still thick with long, slender leaves. A coolness spilled from the shaded space within, the sun-baked air stirred into its edges by the cavorting Barbar.

“Asarafel! How good of you to come…” Sitting in the corner of the pleasant refuge, a young woman cradled a nursing infant, her broad smile remaining as she took in her other visitor. “And your friend is welcome, too. Will you drink with us?” The energetic canine bounded back over, sniffing their dust-clad feet with a curious wet nose. Satisfied, the hound circled around them and then stopped, detecting something. He paused at Imamiah’s melon-stuck fingers and then took to, licking them roughly and enthusiastically. Crying out in surprise, the man took a step back.

The woman laughed and gave her suckling babe a little bounce of encouragement. “Ah, he’s harmless,” she assured. “Come, sit.” Rather than trust his visitor to grasp all that the woman was saying - language was difficult for any new angel, and he had centuries now to become attuned to it - Aziraphale gestured towards the shaded alcove as a means of welcoming the man forward. Eyeing the dog with fascinated suspicion, Imamiah followed the angel over to the woman and sat with him on the scrub grass.

“We have something for you,” Aziraphale beamed, untying the bag of figs from his belt and offering it to their host. “A small token for your family. And what a lovely new addition!”

She touched her fingertips to her forehead, returning his smile as she took the bag, holding it up to sniff at the contents. “So fresh… _dalīlī akka te ṭābtu, duppussû._ You are very good to us.” Aziraphale waved away her thanks, studiously not looking at Imamiah.

“Don’t mention it, really. May I introduce my… _ebbu_ … no, sorry, _ibru,_ Imamiah? Imamiah, this is Asharru, wife of Kalumum, and their daughter Tapputi.” He held out his hands, palms up, and brought them together before him, sketching out their meeting. Asharru, seemingly satisfied that the baby had finished feeding, hefted her against her shoulder, adjusting her robe unselfconsciously, and smiled at the stranger.

“You work with Asarafel? I have not seen you in the town before. Shall I bring us some beer? We have need of rain, and the ground is parched, but at least we can wet our lips.”

Imamiah smiled at the woman, utterly nonplussed by the sounds she was emitting. Shrugging, he looked to Aziraphale for an explanation. Taking his gesture as a sign of acceptance, the woman stood and headed towards the front of the house, bouncing the babe as she went. The men looked at one another, one much more confused than the other. “Was that it? Are we expected to go now? We didn’t really do much other than drop the fruit by,” Imamiah stated with uncertainty.

“She’s bringing us refreshments. We’re guests in her home, and this is her way of showing us hospitality.” Aziraphale listened to the human sounds of domestic pottering, Asharru’s murmurs and coos at the baby, and the child’s answering gurgles, with an expression of benevolence. “I don’t know if you’ll enjoy the taste of beer. It’s quite unusual. But at least drink a little and try to look as if you’re enjoying it.” He paused, regarding the other Principality speculatively. “Have you ever drunk anything before?”

“This is all new,” Imamiah admitted, noting the dog’s return as it sniffed at his foot. Half-smiling, he waggled his toes at the beast, startling it away. “I was Created not all that long ago, to be honest. About the time you were assigned to the Eastern Gate. There is quite a lot that I’m learning about… well, everything.”

The men glanced up with joint smiles as Asharru returned to them. Her infant was slung across her middle with an expertly-tied swathe of soft, copper-dyed fabric, and in her hands was a woven basket with cups, a loaf of dark bread, and a small jug. Returning to her perch, the woman set the basket between them and spread her hands over the offering, inviting them to help themselves. As they reached to take the clay cups, she deposited the figs beside the bread and gestured again.

“A small feast for large friendships,” she beamed warmly at Aziraphale.

“You’re very kind, _bēlat bēti._ A gracious hostess.” Aziraphale poured a little beer for each of them and caught Imamiah’s eye before raising his own cup. “Blessings be upon us. _Taḫdītu._ ” The woman followed suit, and he took a small sip, hoping that the other angel would negotiate this new experience with caution. In an attempt to distract Asharru from any unexpected reactions the man may have had, Aziraphale turned towards her, setting his cup down between his feet and breaking off a small piece of bread for himself. “My friend is also grateful for your welcome, _nasiqtu._ He is from Yamkhad, though, and doesn’t speak your language,” he confided, nibbling the heavy, rosemary-scented crust appreciatively.

“So! I open my hearth to _two_ foreigners today?” She seemed delighted at the idea, and toasted her guests a second time. “The _ilu_ will bless me, and _Sîn_ will watch over me.”

Imamiah followed the actions of Aziraphale and Asharru as they raised their glasses in the second toast. Bringing his nose to the edge of the clay, he took a cautionary sniff of the liquid, very obviously attempting to keep his expression polite. Drawing a lingering sip, his mouth pursed in displeasure and he coughed in spite of himself, bringing forth a small laugh from their host.

“Ah,” the woman grinned. “They must drink horse-water in Yamkhad if this is too strong for your friend.”

Clearly embarrassed, Imamiah set his full cup to the side, for though he couldn’t understand her words, he recognized the tone well enough. He reached instead for a fig and began to nibble at it, his cheeks flushed and his eyes downcast. A small burble erupted from the sling around Asharru as the infant struggled against the enclosure. With a small, chiding tone, its mother set her drink down and retrieved the babe, extricating her from the swathe and bringing her out into the shade of the rushes for her to see their guests.

“Sweet one,” Asharru sighed, bouncing the baby on her knee. “So curious. Has to keep an eye on everything.”

While the woman was preoccupied with her child, Aziraphale gave Imamiah a sympathetic look, brows raised in enquiry. _All right?_ It was a moment’s work to change the malty brew in the other Principality’s cup to apple juice, and he hoped that was more palatable to his taste, as well as soothing his chagrin.

“I can see she will grow up to be as quick and eager to learn as her mother,” he predicted cheerfully. “Perhaps when she’s old enough, you’ll let me teach her the counts and forms, so she could scribe for herself if she so desires?” He didn’t look directly at Imamiah, but kept him in the periphery of his gaze. Partly to reassure himself that he hadn’t accidentally choked the angel on the surprising change to his beer, and partly because that heavy feeling of dread had yet to lift, in spite of the light conversation.

Oblivious to Aziraphale’s gaze, the Principality reached for another fig at the same moment the curious infant batted her chubby arm outwards. The baby’s thick digits grabbed a firm hold of one of the man’s dark curls, gripping him in a vice. Surprised, he froze in place. Asharru gasped, taking hold of her little one’s arm. Try as she might to extricate her child’s hands from the man’s thick hair, it seemed the babe wouldn’t be dissuaded from pulling him closer to her. Finally, the woman sighed in defeat.

“Would he mind, your friend? Tapputi is so stubborn.”

With great uncertainty hidden behind a smiling facade, Aziraphale gestured at the angel in a motion that clearly said _‘take the baby.’ _Nonplussed but compliant, Imamiah took up the happily bubbling infant in his wide hands, holding it on his knee as he’d seen Asharru do. The baby lost itself in his ringlets, cooing happily.__

__Aziraphale stifled a laugh at his associate’s confusion and the perfect picture he made with the child. Once more, he was struck with a profound desire to share the moment with the Host entire. _If they could see. If they just experienced a day amongst Humanity. How much could we learn?__ _

__“Clearly she’ll have no trouble grasping a stylus,” he remarked, fascinated with the child’s entranced demeanour, her hands caught up in the angel’s curls. It made him think of -_ _

__“- rain.” He blinked, suddenly aware he was being spoken to._ _

__“Oh! Asharru - _taiārtu_ \- my mind stole me away. What did you say?”_ _

__Apparently, his distraction hadn’t offended their host, and he suspected that it wasn’t the first time he’d missed an exchange with the humans, because the woman gave him an indulgent look and shook her head. “You’re forgiven. I only said that the air feels as if we might finally see some rain. A mercy, too - the temples have ordered new canals cut from the river, and the stream is lower than ever this month. What feeds the barley starves our own small crops. Without your help, _duppussû,_ we would have found it hard to live.”_ _

__Aziraphale smiled, a little awkwardly. The last thing he needed was a report drifting back up to Gabriel that he was taking a more than professional interest in the region._ _

__Thankfully, his fellow angel was wholly distracted by the human baby in his lap. The infant babbled and cooed as Imamiah leaned forward, dangling his ringlets around her for her chubby hands to grasp and yank. A small wince of pain suffused his face, but he laughed regardless. Picking up the child under its arms, he held it up and smiled at it. “Such a sweet thing,” he remarked, finally handing the babe back to its mother after it had lost interest in his hair. Taking up his glass, he took another tentative sip and found the taste much more palatable. Imamiah shot Aziraphale a small sideways glance in thanks and took a proper drink._ _

__“I’m sure the weather will turn soon enough,” Aziraphale assured the young woman, and - seeing Imamiah’s more enthusiastic reaction to the apple juice - crinkled his nose in something that wasn’t quite a wink. “And the crops will endure. If we have to bring the water from the Tigris in buckets, you’ll be all right.”_ _

__“It’s to be hoped. We gave four larks and six ostrich eggs to the temple only yesterday, but the gods are ever-hungry.”_ _

__Aziraphale wriggled uncomfortably, popping the last fragment of bread in his mouth so that he wouldn’t have to answer straight away. At least his fellow angel couldn’t understand what was being said. Heaven was rather specific when it came to making offerings to random deities._ _

__“There are… certainly those who are insatiable,” he finally conceded with a half-smile. Ashurra nodded and made vocalizations to continue when the baby started to fuss. Drawing the little girl up to her breast, she cooed and hummed._ _

__“ _Sakātu e,_ Tapputi,” she tenderly supplicated. “ _Pašāḫu’a, pašāḫu’a_ …” The infant’s gentle whining stuttered and grew into a delicate, helpless wail. Bouncing and rocking her child, Asharru threw them an apologetic look. Barbar padded up to the woman, sniffed curiously at the crying child, and attempted to lick its extended foot. The baby thrashed with a shriek of upset, scaring the dog back to the side of the house._ _

__Curious, Imamiah got to his feet and drew up beside Asharru, leaning over her shoulder to better see the squalling child. “What upsets her?” the angel asked Aziraphale, a slight note of concern in his voice._ _

__“Heaven knows,” the Principality admitted, his tone a touch more tired-sounding than he’d intended. Clearing his throat, he stood and dusted his tunic. “It is their want to cry, sometimes without reason. I think-” Aziraphale paused in speech and action as Imamiah lifted his hand behind Asharru’s head and drew a small triangle in the air with two fingers. Instantly, the heart-wrenching bawling ceased. Fearful, the mother drew her baby down to her lap. The little girl was suddenly sound asleep, her small thumb pressed firmly between her chubby cheeks as she happily, noisily suckled. Sighing in relief, the woman clutched her daughter to her chest and hummed happily._ _

__A strange look passed over Aziraphale’s face as he regarded the visitor. It was related to a smile, though not quite as simple as one. Imamiah pushed his dark curls from his face as he stepped up beside his compatriot. “We should go,” he stated simply. “How do you say ‘thank you’?”_ _

__“Thank you?” Aziraphale echoed in confusion as a flurry of discordant thoughts ran a circle in his mind. He gave himself the smallest of pauses as he chose, for the moment, to set aside the still-present feeling of unease. The angel's smile returned. “Oh, yes. _Dalīlakki,_ when speaking to the woman.”_ _

__Placing his fist at the small of his back, Imamiah bowed to the comforted mother. “ _Dalīlakki,_ ” he solemnly repeated. Asharru nodded in reply and rocked the babe, indicating that they could see themselves away. The pair ambled back to the main road, their steps weighted with thoughtfulness as they crossed from the scrub grass onto the worn thoroughfare. They strode in wanting silence for a moment before the visiting angel spoke: “With the way you’re regarding me, I would think it were no small miracle to get a baby to stop crying.” Aziraphale glanced at the man, who was staring a mile down the road with a small grin at the corner of his mouth._ _

__“It was a kindness.” He clasped his hands before him, mastering the urge to gesticulate in emphasis. “I sometimes forget that our ilk are capable of more than impersonal benevolence. I’m glad of the reminder.” It was a comfort, if any comfort was to be had, that whatever the reason for his reassignment, Aziraphale would leave behind an angel who might actually care for his charges._ _

__“We’ve dallied long enough, though,” he continued with some reluctance. “Much as I would love to introduce you to more Earthly delights, you’re here on business and I’m holding you up. Shall we repair to my home and discuss matters there?”_ _

__“Yes…” The meager smile on the man’s face broke slightly as Imamiah remembered his duties. Clearing his throat, he slowed his pace and stepped to the side of the street. Stopping in the shade of a tall building, he admitted, “Truthfully, I should deliver the edict before the evening gets too far along. It’s - well… I will be able to give you more tonight, after speaking to the mortal. I’ve heard that humans are famously uncooperative, and I will need to see where his heart and goals lay in alignment to Her Will before I can say with certainty what will happen in the coming weeks._ _

__“But it will be at least a week,” the Principality continued, bringing his hands up defensively. “I can give you that much. For now, though, do you happen to know of a man named Noah in this village?”_ _

__The name brightened Aziraphale’s countenance, and he indicated a hill to the south of where they stood._ _

__“Pleasant fellow. He lives up on the hillside with his family. Does very cunning work with fermented grapes. I must give you a bottle when you get back…” There was a thread of bright anxiety in his voice, and he retrieved his own hand, holding it protectively against himself where it couldn’t give him away. “If you’re going to give him bad news, do be gentle with him. This region has been through the mill lately.”_ _

__The other angel’s expression shifted unsubtly. It was apparent to even Aziraphale, who was ever the optimist in the most dire of circumstances, that this would indeed be bad news. Imamiah nodded and turned his eye to the south._ _

__“Hopefully the cunning grapes taste better than whatever it was your friend served me earlier,” he chuckled emptily, trying to lighten the mood. “I should be back tonight after sundown, if all things go well. If not, then… well. I’ll come to you, either way.” The Principality swallowed visibly and started for the meager vineyard on the rise, leaving behind an impenetrable silence weighted with questions._ _

__\---_ _

__It was well after dark by the time Aziraphale heard approaching footsteps on the dusty path outside. The flame of the oil lamp on his desk was starting to spit and he jerked his head at it, the small miracle leaving a momentary distortion in the air. The light steadied, oil replenishing itself obediently. For a while, he’d simply miracled a light so that he could browse his collection of tablets into the late hours, but it was hard to produce something that wasn’t perfectly steady. Once again, the neighbours had necessitated a more subtle approach._ _

__He’d set out cups and a small date-palm cask of Noah’s best wine, but held off breaching it for now. Whatever Imamiah’s task had been, it had troubled him. A kind word might be needed more than the solace of material pleasures and - he stirred guiltily on the low stool - there was no sense in such an excellent wine going to waste._ _

__The thin fabric over the doorway parted and Imamiah stepped in without announcing himself. For one with a life unending and energy abounding, the man looked utterly drained. His eyes seemed duller, and the bend of his shoulder was notable. Though he delivered his news, it was clear that the burden of it hadn’t left. Aziraphale made to offer him a seat, but the gesture was perfunctory as the man sat himself silently on the floor, leaning his back against the still-warm clay of the eastern wall. After a time, he spoke: “I… think things… went well.”_ _

__Aziraphale contemplated the other Principality for several long moments, feeling the complicated mechanisms within himself take an unpleasant swoop downwards. If that was what Imamiah looked like when things had gone well, Heaven only knew what a less positive result might have been. Moving so that he could sit on the rush-strewn floor nearby, he pulled the wine cask over and broke the seal, pouring a generous measure into a cup and offering it to his visitor._ _

__“Take a minute. Drink some of this. And then… well, you’d better tell me the news. Can’t put it off forever, you know.” He tried to sound encouraging, but his voice fell flat on the still space between them. Lifting his hand as though a brick were tied to his wrist, the man received the cup, his eyes staring emptily at the liquid. Automatically, he drew it to his lips and drank, expressionless. He paused for a moment, then brought it up again with a small twinge in his face. Turning his eyes to Aziraphale, he almost smiled._ _

__“Much better than the drink before,” he chuckled weakly. Taking another long, automated drink, he set the cup between his legs, absently tracing a bead of crimson liquid along the rim of the glass with his finger. Imamiah drew his eyes around the room, truly seeing it for the first time. He brought his free hand to his chest as he took in the love of the place, and closed his eyes. “Aziraphale,” he mumbled quietly, “I don’t know if I should be asking this, but… but what do you believe we were created for? Principalities, I mean? There are only eight of us, and we have restrictions that no others of Her Creation carry. Why? What makes us so… different?”_ _

__It felt like a test. Aziraphale considered the question for a while and for half a cup of wine before answering. “You already know the answer. The Official answer, I mean. We were made as guides to the nations of the Earth, to help humanity negotiate a path towards Salvation, and to act as conduits of Her Love.” He stared into the cup, suddenly beset with a new worry. “I suppose I’m not doing much of a job of it, here. One does one’s best, of course - the right word in the right ear, inspiring a ruler, softening the heart of a warlord. But it’s all got rather out of hand.”_ _

__Taking a convulsive swallow of the remaining wine, he looked up at Imamiah. “They don’t mean any harm, you know? All this nonsense with fifty different deity statues, and leaving them eggs and wheat, as if stone had an appetite. They’re just looking for a way forward, and…” Again, guiltily, he glanced upwards. “We aren’t authorized to give them half as much direction as might be helpful.”_ _

__Extending his cup to Aziraphale to refill, Imamiah considered the response, mulling over the words as his tired gaze followed the ribbon of blood-red liquid from the cask into the mug. Giving the man a small nod of thanks, he took a lingering drag of the gritty wine. “After my… visitation to Noah, I… took a walk around the village. On my own.” He paused, his words heavy and sad. “It’s beautiful here.” The exhausted angel shook his head and supped again, his expression tight. “Do you know, up in Head Office, they say our name as though we were something lesser? I’ve heard them, the Archangels. Referring to one another as ‘Principality’ when an error is made, or when they act with too much emotion. It-”_ _

__He cut himself off as anger built in his voice, biting his words. Drawing a hand across his face, he took a moment to steady himself. “I’m very sorry. This is, well… this is the longest I’ve spent with one like myself. I feel somewhat… I don’t know. I apologize.”_ _

__“My dear boy.” Aziraphale gave him a tender look and put the wine cask aside so that he could reposition himself beside the other angel. “What we are is nothing shameful. She made us with love. _To_ love. And emotions are complicated, messy, _human_ things. It is a privilege to have been Created with such a gift. In that, we resemble Her most favoured more than those whom we are commanded by.” That sounded dangerously like pride, and he hurried to correct himself._ _

__“That’s not to say we are better. Obviously. But we were granted an understanding of the mortal world that few of the Host can ever understand, let alone enjoy, _because_ we were designed to share Her Love. Never see it as a failing. Now do tell me what’s on your mind. I can tell that it’s nothing good.”_ _

__Imamiah lowered his head, his dark ringlets obscuring his face. Patiently, Aziraphale waited on the man, but after a moment, he felt a small amount of added concern. A soft pat of sound, barely audible, alighted on his ear and his gaze drew down to the dirt between the other angel’s crossed legs. He was crying._ _

__Pushing his hands across his face and straightening up, Imamiah breathed in a steady, drawn breath to calm himself. He tried to meet his fellow Principality’s gaze, but couldn’t. The shimmer of tears glistened on his copper cheeks with an iridescent glow in the lamplight. His throat caught, and then finally, he replied: “Your relocation… It’s… Th-the Almighty is calling a flood. To the whole of the basin. Not just here. Everywhere. Everything. E-Everyone.”_ _

__The sight of the visiting angel’s tears was enough to bring them to his own eyes. Aziraphale swallowed, the wine now tinged with salt. The fiery sunsets. The air so dense with gathering water. It all came together with awful significance, shocking as a gong ringing out on a quiet night._ _

__“But…” He tried to gather his thoughts, but they whirled about him as if caught in a rising gale. It was Her will. The lambent core of his being that still trembled with Her Words thrummed more strongly than ever, perhaps in response to the closeness of another of his kind, or at the sensation of being pulled in two opposing directions. It was Her Will. There was no gainsaying it. No avoiding it. And yet…_ _

__“Have they really been so bad? Is there nothing we can do?”_ _

__“What in you thinks I should know?” Imamiah choked, emotion getting the better of him. “Noah will be fine, apparently. He and his family will be constructing some ark for themselves and a few of the animals. But none of the people. And not nearly large enough to…” The words died in his throat as the weight of everything overwhelmed him. He stuck Aziraphale with a look, his gentle silver eyes brimming with confusion and hurt. “The Almighty has decreed that there is much wickedness in the people here, and that Noah and his family should be spared, as they are the only innocents. I have delivered him a draft for a mighty vessel, which with some assistance, should be built within a week, wherein every animal in the land will pair beside and gain entrance to his sanctuary. Then the rains will begin._ _

__“It will rain for forty days and nights, and the whole of Her First Kingdom will perish. Drowned, washed clean. A great Undoing. She wishes to start over, and so… when She is satisfied that the land is cleansed, She will dissipate the floodwaters and present the New Kingdom with a rain-bow as a sign of forgiveness, and a covenant with Man that She will not wash away her Kingdom again.”_ _

__One of the best things about having a corporation, Aziraphale had discovered, was the satisfying tactility of body-language. Though they manifested in Heaven with mostly human forms for convenience, it wasn’t the same. Less sensation in those utilitarian shapes. Less feedback. Less _everything_. He put a hand over his eyes, rubbed at them, then dragged his palm down over his face, as though wiping some dark and intrusive thought away. _Innocents._ He thought of the laughing children they’d passed in the street that day. The baby, tangling her fingers, unknowingly, in an angel’s hair. It was no use trying to tell himself that those innocents would ascend to Heaven on their deaths. They would still suffer, and scream, and be terrified. They would still cling to their parents in the rising waters, and their parents, wrapped in their own fear, would be able to offer little comfort worth having._ _

__“A… rain-bow,” he repeated flatly._ _

__Wordlessly, Imamiah nodded. The two beings sat in silence together, held in place by their shared burden. A slight northern breeze cut through the curtained door and the still-sweltering night air, bringing a shudder to the younger Principality. “This is cruelty,” he finally spat, his hard gaze turned to his wine cup. Aziraphale glanced up at the man, but remained silent as he took a small pull from his drink. Imamiah’s vibrant silver eyes swam with heartache and anger, his voice strained as he fought to keep it level. “Look at our Names, our beings. At Nithael, and Poyel, and Hahasiah. _Look at us._ We are not meant to bring death and pain. We are Principalities, created by Her Word to be an extension of Her love for Man. We are made to _love_ them, not destroy them.”_ _

__“You said yourself, what in us has any answers to Her ineffable Plan?” Aziraphale offered gently, hoping to calm the man._ _

__“I do not need Her answer to know that this is wrong,” he fumed, draining his cup and pouring himself another as he firmly ignored the look he was receiving._ _

__“...be mindful,” Aziraphale cautioned, a hint of fear in his tone._ _

__“ _‘Mindful’,_ ” the Principality echoed disdainfully. “As She is mindful of the flock. Letting them flourish unattended and then frowning as they grow wild, like a dispassionate gardener-”_ _

__“Imamiah!” the angel implored. “That’s… we shouldn’t question-”_ _

__“Shouldn’t we?” he demanded, leaning in to the man as he set his cup aside._ _

__Aziraphale drew slightly back, surprised. “Of course not. That is how we-” he hesitated, clearing his throat. “That is how angels Fall.”_ _

__“No, not like this,” Imamiah insisted. “We cannot Fall if it is because of our love for Her Creation, surely? They are too precious to Her; She sees them as far more deserving than us. Truly we cannot Fall by protecting that which She holds most dear?”_ _

__The older angel’s gaze softened with something close to pity. “It’s a paradox. I wish I had an answer for you, my dear.”_ _

__Imamiah made a fist with one hand and brought it to his lips in thought. After staring at the experienced Principality for a long, solemn moment, he finally decided. “It would not hurt Her plan to save some of them. Those that are certainly innocent. Children, babies. Noah will be able to spare some room for them.”_ _

__“And it is on us to make that judgement over Her? Picking those we deem innocent and choosing who to condemn?” Aziraphale answered with conditioned automation, tempering the rising steel in his voice. “Those children who passed us today. One was older. Was he less worthy of life than the others?” Imamiah made to respond, but the heat in the man’s insistent tone left him in stricken silence. Aziraphale continued: “The woman you met. Asharru. Should we let her perish and save her babe? We cannot judge, no matter how much we wish to ease the pains of Man.”_ _

__Unable to speak through the building tightness in his throat, Imamiah begged through eyes swelling with opalescent tears. Unconsciously, the older angel drew himself a little closer to the man, instinctually offering the smallest amount of comfort in spite of the restrictions on their proximity. “It hurts,” Aziraphale conceded. “I promise you, the hurt I feel is far greater than I could put into words at present. These are not simply Her children; In no small way they are also… mine. I have seen their births, their deaths. Fed their infants. Tended their wounds. It… it is beyond sense to love them, and yet let them die. But we must remember our overarching purpose: enacting Her will. Perhaps-”_ _

__The speech died off as enormous, shimmering tears once again poured down the younger man’s face. Aziraphale’s throat caught and he forced his gaze away. Shutting his eyes, he drew in a long, steadying breath before returning to Imamiah. “Perhaps,” he continued, shifting direction, “we can ease their suffering. Bring them sleep before the flood. Something to lessen their pain.”_ _

__“Across the whole of the First Kingdoms?” Imamiah almost laughed. “It would be impossible without the Archangels discovering us.” His near-smile froze in place as realization suddenly dawned across his features. Noticing this obvious change, Aziraphale clasped his hands in his lap with concern._ _

__“What is it, dear boy?” he asked in a much brighter tone than he felt._ _

__“This…” he began, his voice shaking. “This is my Purpose. Why such an assignment was given to a Principality. I am the first of our kind to be tasked with delivering an edict of this nature. I… I have to ensure that I’m the last.”_ _

__“You can’t. You _mustn’t,_ ” Aziraphale entreated. “This should never have been your lot. You were made for gentler things than this.”_ _

__“So were you, Aziraphale. Principalities were not meant to cause suffering to Man. It is written in our essence to love them, and if I allow manipulation of this kind to happen even one time, then I am betraying what I was Created for. If this is a t-test of Our Kind, then… then I will be the sole pupil of that lesson.”_ _

__The scribe’s speech failed him as his mind stumbled, searching for a foundation that had seemingly dissolved. Astonished, he swallowed and tried to focus his errant gaze on the man. “Wh… what do you intend to do?”_ _

__Imamiah drew himself back, shifting the air cooly between them. When his thoughts collected, he pinned Aziraphale with determination in his crystalline gaze. “I will speak to Noah again. Inform him of… additions to the Plan.”_ _

__“ _Additions,_ ” Aziraphale echoed. “You will lie to the man?”_ _

__“He will be spared Her wrath, I’m certain of it,” Imamiah assured him with what meager amount of conviction he had left in himself. “I will try for more space, hopefully enough for a few children at least. Those remaining… I will do what I can. See if anyone else has the ability to craft even a tenuous vessel before the week’s end. I was not told to _only_ inform Noah of the flood,” he added ruefully._ _

__“Imamiah…” Aziraphale implored._ _

__“Something must be done, Aziraphale,” he insisted. “It has to be done.”_ _

__“We shouldn’t even be here, now,” the angel rebuked. “You delivered Her Word. You delivered the plans for this - this vessel for the fortunate. If you are determined to… to go through with this foolhardy idea of yours, then go to Noah with your amendments and see yourself away from this place. I will stay and shepherd the people until the rains come.”_ _

__Imamiah chuckled bitterly. “Don’t you understand? I was told to replace you here. This is my task, not yours. Now, there is work I must do and no time left to consider the end.”_ _

__Aziraphale gritted his teeth. After a moment, he gently entreated, “Let me halve your burden.”_ _

__“No,” Imamiah instantly censured. “I’ve told you, this is mine to bear. I will not allow you to become an unnecessary casualty.”_ _

___Casualty._ The word echoed in the small room, swimming through the humid night air. The yearning lamplight began to gutter and finally died in their silence. The intense glow from the swollen, waxing moon pooled luxuriously from the unshuttered windows and sliced neatly through fine gaps in the roof. The perfume of the desert, fresh clay, and spiced wine filled their senses as though they were only just now breathing in the nourishing fragrances. With assistance from the worktable, Imamiah drew himself up._ _

__“This should be our last exchange,” he determined. Aziraphale stood on legs unsteady with wine and disquiet. He made to speak, but the junior Principality interjected: “Promise me something.”_ _

__Aziraphale blinked. “I-I will do what I can, if I can.”_ _

__Imamiah composed himself, weighing his words carefully before he spoke: “Whatever happens, however long Eternity lasts, never forget for a moment that… that She made us to love. And for that, we will never be out of Her favour when we act in love.”_ _

__“It was in my Words,” Aziraphale affirmed. “I imagine it was in yours, too. But it wasn’t the whole of my Name. How can I reconcile this while allowing you to act without Her Authority? You are innocent, too.”_ _

__“Because my acts are my own. You could more easily bottle the tide, my friend.”_ _

__“Then you believe we, too, have free will?”_ _

__Imamiah hesitated, never having thought such a thing before. Eventually, he nodded. “I have no choice but to believe it now, for I feel it. Like this flesh I’m inhabiting, it’s a claustrophobic and heavy burden.”_ _

__Aziraphale drew his eyes across the man’s face, drinking in that determined expression as he imagined, not so long ago, he had worn the same countenance while offering a flaming sword to a young, fragile couple. Finally, he spoke: “I will keep my promise to you, if you promise to never voice that belief among the Host. I… I cannot see you Fall, Imamiah.”_ _

__“Whatever retribution is entirely mine to bear,” the younger Principality spoke assuredly. “I will only act in love. Her love for Her people. It will be all right.” He strode over to the doorway and drew back the cloth, stepping out into the moon-bathed street. Aziraphale followed, noting the stillness of the evening. It was unusual for summer, but considering what lay ahead, it did not seem inappropriate. The novicial angel took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, savouring the taste of the desert air. He turned to the scribe with a gentle smile, his cheeks shimmering from those earlier tears in the glossy moonlight. “Protect yourself, Aziraphale. Never forget your name, and who We are meant to be.”_ _

__Nodding with deliberate temperance, Aziraphale took a moment to succinctly arrange his thoughts. “The language of this place is still strange to me,” he began slowly, “even after all of this time. I can imagine how beguiling it was for you today. But let me give you this word - the one Asharru gave to me. I am certain that it belongs to you. _Duppussû._ Little brother.”_ _

__The timid smile swelled and cracked on Imamiah’s face as a fresh tear escaped him. “Brother,” he repeated with a meager laugh. “Now is hardly the time for such things. The world is ending, after all.”_ _

__“What better time to reach out to those we hold dear?” Aziraphale asked, with an affection that surprised him a little. Another Principality, his own kin - but had they ever spoken for so long before, or shared so much? Had any of them?_ _

__The younger angel’s smile twisted with emotion and he laughed softly, his chest tightening with something like sadness, though not as bitter or lonely. Suddenly afraid of what awaited him at the vineyard, he stuck out his hand before reason or regret could catch him and took hold of Aziraphale’s wrist. It was the most natural thing in the world for the seasoned Principality to return the gesture, closing his hand around Imamiah’s wrist in kind, but as he did something snapped against his skin like the flick of a lash. Instead of pain, though, the sensation was a sharp, clinging heat that travelled up the length of his arm and made him gasp. He pulled back, startled._ _

__Stunned, Imamiah took a half-step backwards, grabbing the place where their skin had touched as though burned. His eyes darted to the point of contact and he cautiously peeled his hand back, certain he would find a whip-like welt travelling tandem to his veins. Instead, it was simply skin. Eyeing his fellow angel with trepidation, he swallowed._ _

__“...what…?”_ _

__Aziraphale was examining his own forearm, tracing his fingertips along its length, and finding nothing amiss. He shook his head, nonplussed. “I’m not sure. That’s never… did I hurt you?”_ _

__“No, not in the least,” he muttered, still curiously examining his arm. “I’ve… I mean, there have been times where I have touched other angels. Handshakes. Gabriel’s horrible shoulder-grabbing. But… but what in Heaven was that? That’s not _us,_ is it?”_ _

__Curious, he stepped up to Aziraphale and placed a finger against his arm. On contact, the space warmed comfortingly, as though dipped in a gently steaming bath. Aziraphale opened his mouth in amusement at the Principality’s comment on the Archangel, but with this unexpected sensation his lips pressed together, eyes growing vague and unfocused as the heat pulsed gently from the point of contact. He breathed in, the heady scents of the night making his head swim. It felt like a summer tide washing in and out of his chest. The constant flow of Her presence, but reduced to something tender, more personal. Unthinking, he lifted his own hand and pressed Imamiah’s so that it flattened against him._ _

__Cascades of warmth flooded between the men and Imamiah reflexively gasped in shock. His eyes fluttered closed as a swell of blistering static haze stole his mind away. Drawing his fingers firmly around Aziraphale's bicep, he took a deep, labored breath and steadied himself. “This…” he mumbled, forcing his eyes open as the warmth relaxed and flowed, no longer a rushing waterfall._ _

__The unfiltered force of Divine Love eased and swayed between them, soothing Aziraphale like water soaking into parched earth. It flowed into him, flowered within him, and filled him. Beneath the comfortable protection of his familiar corporation, he felt his true form stir and tremble and he forced the impulse into the Place Where Wings Go, their unseen flexing arching his back and pulling air into his lungs. The part of his mind not consumed with the soft ebb and flow of power spoke distractedly of humans, and what they should not see. That thought was enough to bring the night into focus, and to quiet the burning shape that mortal flesh concealed._ _

__As though sensing the twist of disquietude from Aziraphale, Imamiah stepped up against him and maneuvered them both from their exposed position in the middle of the lane to the shadowy slit of space between Aziraphale’s home and the neighbour’s. Confused and uncertain, Imamiah drew his hands up the lengths of the Aziraphale’s arms and against his neck, delicately weaving his fingers into the man’s soft, pale hair. Every new landing felt as though it glowed with its own unique radiance. Something swam up from the pit of Imamiah and stuck in his chest, gripping his throat in a vice. “This must be… why we’re not allowed…” he labored, working with great efforts against the sweltering balm encasing his consciousness._ _

___Not allowed._ The voice was the young Principality’s, but the words seemed to come from elsewhere. Aziraphale let the other angel’s hands roam where they would, unresisting, and his own hands responded, ignoring that first twinge of guilt to steal around and trace a line of heat up the curve of his back, coming to rest beneath sharply defined shoulder blades, smoothing the place where wings would emerge. Beneath his palms, the thrum of the universe. Through his body, the drift of continents. He sighed. How could something so sweet be wrong?_ _

__Imamiah shuddered under the touch and drew himself down, placing his cheek against Aziraphale’s and breathing deeply in a vain attempt at calming himself. A tight, blissful expression drew itself across the man’s face as his lips brushed against the older angel’s ear. “It’s unfortunate,” he breathed. “Why are we told that we mustn't…?”_ _

__The dimensions were blurring. Aziraphale shut his eyes against the twisting light, feeling his corporation strain at the pressures of the unfolding energies within. Again, that voice. _You mustn’t._ More insistent this time, and less like Imamiah. He tightened his grip, pulling the younger angel against him, resting his burning cheek on the man’s shoulder. _ _

___You mustn’t._ It was temptation. There were Rules. But only for them. For Principalities. How could that be fair? To give such felicity to others but never receive it. Why put such temptation before Her Host? _ _

___Why not on the top of a high mountain? Or the Moon?_ _ _

__The voice of the demon. Of Crawley._ _

__“Imamiah… my dear, we have to stop.”_ _

__His words, spoken against Imamiah’s neck, seemed lifetimes away. The young Principality shuddered and drew his hands down from Aziraphale’s hair as he embraced the man tightly, pressing his own cheek against the older angel’s short, silken curls. The connection, their whole bodies spanning in their grip, felt like a waltz in the centre of a radiant sunrise. With a deep, steadying breath and a small squeeze, Imamiah finally let go, tenderly cupping Aziraphale’s hands in his as he stepped away. Unable to speak, he stared into the man’s endlessly blue eyes, searching for something. Then, slowly, he nodded as he brought the Principality’s hands up to his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured against them before releasing him and unfurling his wings in a dazzling shower of starlight._ _

__Uncertain of his legs, Aziraphale remained leaning against the wall, the shadowed clay cooling him where he had been warm. Something pressed against his foot and he glanced down, spotting a small green shoot rising from the bare ground. Miracle indeed, but not for long. Soon, the dry earth would see more water than it had ever needed, and all that was green would perish. He blinked, and the world resolved itself where tears had begun to obscure it._ _

__“Be safe, little brother. Where you go, I am with you.”_ _

__“Then there is nowhere I could go and not be safe,” Imamiah smiled. Bringing his hand up to his chest, he gripped the front of his green tunic as his wings beat down, and in one stroke he was up, rocketing high above the city. His form cut a line across the stunning starscape as he hovered for just a moment, considering the fates around him. Noah, and the people of the First Kingdoms. Aziraphale. Himself._ _

__The porcelain wings drew into another mighty thrust and he shot off towards the hillside, twisting and soaring with determination to whatever awaited them all once he challenged Her plan._ _

__\--_ _

__Aziraphale didn’t run. He made a point of it. He wasn’t good at it, and there was seldom anything that couldn’t be miracled or persuaded to stop chasing him. But now he was running as fast as he could, oblivious to the rough path scraping at his feet. If Heaven wasn’t watching him yet, there might still be time, but he didn’t dare risk a translocation, even over such a short distance, when the eyes of the Archangels were surely on the valley._ _

__There were two things in his mind jostling for position and making other thought all but impossible, so much that he almost crossed the path towards the vineyard and kept going before checking himself and changing course. One was the sky, which had gone from a brassy yellow to leaden grey, clouds drawing together like cattle congregating by a pool. The other was the face of Asharru, wreathed in a blissful smile, seated where he’d seen her last in the reed shelter. In her hands was a bundle of copper-hued cloth, empty. In her eyes, a wistful calm that would not respond to his increasingly sharp enquiries, or finally, panicky shaking of her shoulders._ _

__Tapputi was gone. Her mother was there, but drifting serenely. And the storm was approaching. _There could still be time. Forty days of rain will surely bring a flood, but not immediately. Not all at once. They could still seek sanctuary if they hurried. If we helped them._ The idea sat uncomfortably in his chest, waiting for some scrap of rational mind to take it up and examine it._ _

__Breathing hard, his throat dry with road dust, he ran._ _

__Rows of verdant green vines passed by him before he registered his location, his feet having already led him pounding through the rolling land of Noah’s vineyard. His corporation ached with unfamiliar activity, but there was simply no time. No reprieve while so much hung on a knife’s edge. Aziraphale reached a parting in the rows and looked down the slice of landscape, catching his breath and listening._ _

__At first, only the sounds of distant village life and nearby lowing cattle reached him, but after a time, he heard a familiar sound. A baby’s laughter. Picking his feet back up, he strode anxiously down the centre lane, nervous eyes scanning each row until he found his mark. At the heart of one of the lush corridors, Imamiah stood with Tapputi, brushing the small coif of hair from the infant’s face. He was talking softly to her, quiet enough that Aziraphale couldn’t make out the words. The younger Principality smiled at the babe with a small touch of sadness at the corners of his mouth before bringing her protectively against his chest and turning, heading towards Noah’s homestead._ _

__Aziraphale tried to call after him, but all that emerged was a croak, the dust binding his throat as effectively as a gag. For the best, perhaps. The child was calm. His cry would have been wild, unformed. _What do you intend to do? Tell him to take her back? Take her yourself and set her in her mother’s arms to perish? Think, you fool.__ _

__That other, urgent thought that had waited patiently for a moment of calm pushed itself forward, and he examined it briefly before casting it aside. This was a judgement. Not some creeping sickness that could be outrun. When the flood arrived, it would come as a tumult, rising from the ground as swiftly as an avenging Host upon the condemned Sodom. Nowhere to run._ _

__He followed, his eyes on Imamiah, hands seeking one another for some semblance of comfort, thinking desperately. _I should do something._ _ _

__Or… he could do nothing. One baby. His own words came back to him. _We cannot judge._ Torn, he pursued the younger Principality at a distance, the only thing he could think to do._ _

__They were near the end of their rows now, about to crest the final hill and reach the summit, the roof of Noah’s home barely scraping above their sightline. Above them, the rough sky churned and twisted, and then a sound like a thunderclap rang out on the landscape. Aziraphale’s blood ran cold, knowing that tell-tale heralding far too well. Freezing in place, he watched as two figures swathed in white tunic-cloths shimmered into existence on either side of Imamiah, stopping him dead in his tracks._ _

__Hastily, Aziraphale jogged up and to the side, ducking under the vines into the neighbouring row. With extreme caution in his step, he crept closer, hesitating behind a trunk and post when he felt he could go no further or risk his own discovery._ _

__The bottom dropped out of his stomach when one of the angels spoke, sending a sickness boiling down into his feet that swelled steadily upwards._ _

__“What do you think you’re doing, Principality?” Uriel flatly intoned. Thunder rolled again, but this time it was the sound of the sky shuddering uneasily. Imamiah’s voice was lower, weighted with a mixture of deference and defiance._ _

__“This babe is innocent. She deserves mercy, not purging with the wicked. I’ve delivered God’s judgement. What harm can this one child do?”_ _

__Aziraphale shook his head, swallowing back his words. Sandalphon. Uriel. They were not here to bring mercy. Lightning lit the clouds from within, spanning the sky in a stutter of brightness that made him wince and look away._ _

__Dark laughter bleated out of Sandalphon, cutting the air like a scythe through wheat. “Harm,” he repeated thickly._ _

__“Your place isn’t to judge,” Uriel affirmed coldly, and from his vantage, Aziraphale saw her circle around Imamiah, stepping up behind him like a lioness treading dangerously close to her prey. “You were sent down for a purpose, part of which was replacing Aziraphale as Principality of this region. Instead, he’s off Heaven knows where and we find you here, with that. Account for yourself.”_ _

__“I was given no other choice,” the Principality assured his superiors with a trembling voice. “Noah needed extra guidance, and-”_ _

__A sound like cloth stretching and seams tearing reached Aziraphale, and he stooped just enough to gain a better view. The unpleasant mountain of flesh that he recognized as Heaven’s Authoritarian was grappling with Imamiah, attempting to grab for Tapputi. For a brief moment, they grunted and gripped one another, and then Uriel bent neatly forward and ran a single finger up the Principality’s spine, calling his wings out. He yelled in surprise as she lifted a sandaled foot and kicked behind his knees, dropping him to the ground. Placing her heel in the centre of his back, she grabbed hold of his wings and yanked._ _

__Aziraphale lunged towards the group, meaning to shout at them. Distract them. _Anything._ But he froze as Sandalphon, with a nasal, satisfied grunt, stooped and snatched the baby from Imamiah’s arms. The child shrieked as the stocky Archangel held it up, dangling, by one ankle._ _

__“Her judgement has come upon this evil place, Principality. The innocent have been given their reprieve, and nobody has the authority to alter that tally.” The sky was rocked by a roar of thunder that blotted out all other sound, slicing across the open plains and answered by more distant echoes from the low mountains. “Not all the Host. Not all of Her creation. And definitely not you.”_ _

__Now Aziraphale did start to run forward, but his legs betrayed him, aching from the unfamiliar exercise, and tumbled him to the ground. He looked up, hearing Imamiah’s anguished cry, and saw Sandalphon raise his arm and bring it down, the howling infant clutched in his fist like a rag, weightless._ _

__No thunder was loud enough to drown the wet, visceral _thud.__ _

__Sandalphon sneered down at the stain, and then the man lifted his foot, silencing the remaining pitiful wails. The air hung heavy and electric with the weight of the act. Uriel dug her fingers into the young Principality’s wing joints, bristling the feathers. Everything seemed to be moving at half-speed._ _

__Suddenly, Imamiah launched himself off the ground, wrenching out of Uriel’s grip and attacking Sandalphon, throwing him bodily down the row. The feral Principality pinned the Archangel down by burying his knees deep into his gut, his fingers extended to long, deadly blades as he hacked at Sandalphon’s chest. Gold blood splashed haphazardly along the ground and vines, flung carelessly from Imamiah’s fingers. His wails echoed across the vineyard like the deadly, hungry cries of a beast._ _

__Stunned, Uriel roughly shook her head and then dashed forward, producing a shining silver spear from the air with a flick of her wrist. Pulling up behind the pair, she hesitated just long enough to gauge their pitching and then struck, driving the weapon perpendicular to Imamiah’s back and through the thick muscles of his wingspan. The angel screamed as she put both hands on the breadth of the spear stuck between his wings and yanked him backwards off of her fellow Archangel._ _

__“Principality,” she snarled, throwing him bodily into the dirt, her hands slick with gold as she held him like a quartermaster holding the reigns of a wild steed, “Now you will receive your own judgement.”_ _

__A cold wind swept over the plains and up the hillside, combing the scrub grass and shaking the vines. Aziraphale pushed himself to his feet, barely aware that his own wings had loosed themselves, numb to the feeling of them striking the ground in a senseless, furious blow._ _

__“You’ll Fall for this,” he shouted, his voice breaking. “This isn’t judgement, it’s wicked!” He staggered towards the other angels, caught off balance by the capricious wind. Lightning danced between the clouds, then anchored them to the earth in a column that twisted and snapped for long enough to leave blue-black afterimages on his sight. For just a second, he froze. _Gabriel._ Instead, it vanished, and was answered immediately by a peal of thunder that made the earth shake._ _

__In the spot where the lightning had risen, piercing the clouds, the earth split, a long, jagged black mouth that gaped at the sky. From its depths, the sound of rushing water. And from Above, the rain began to fall._ _

__Uriel regarded him with a cold eye, then turned her face up to the sky with a smile. “Aziraphale,” she addressed him flatly. “Interesting to see you joining us.” Tightening her grip on the spear shaft, she pulled it roughly down, lifting Imamiah’s chest up with a guttural cry of agony. His wide, adrenaline-fueled gaze swept roughly up and landed on his fellow Principality, and all rage melted away with the now-spitting rain. Sandalphon’s blood dripped from his face, pooling under his chin as the Lord’s judgement fell on them all._ _

__Sandalphon approached them, his hand clutching the gaping canyons in his chest. Panting like a dog, he lifted his foot and kicked out against Imamiah’s ribcage, forcing Uriel to tighten her hold unexpectedly. A cry of pain bleated from Imamiah and he closed his eyes, ashamed to look at Aziraphale. Sneering, Sandalphon drew his attention to their unexpected guest._ _

__“Were you part of this?” he threatened, his voice a deadly blade rending the rising wind._ _

__“Yes!” Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. “All of it. The idea was mine. Imamiah just did as he was told.” He closed the distance between them, reaching towards the wounded Principality, his hands shaking. “Take him away from here if that was your intent, but please… this is wrong. Withdraw your spear, Uriel. Let him be healed.” Under the blackening sky, the ground seemed colourless except where it was splashed with gold, and with red. Aziraphale made a gagging, horrified sound in the back of his throat at the pitiful scene of carnage, intensifying rain swirling the dreadful brightness together._ _

__“That - that child was named ‘Tapputi’,” the older Principality asserted. “She was brought into this world in love, and her time here has been blameless. What right have you to slaughter an innocent? To profane the earth with her blood?”_ _

__Sandalphon cooly stepped up to the defiant angel, looming menacingly in the growing darkness. “It was dead long before I did anything,” he smirked. “The Lord passed Her declaration long ago. This is just clean-up.”_ _

__“There is a wickedness that must be purged, Principality,” Uriel droned, her hands keeping a firm lock on the spear shaft, holding the struggling Imamiah solidly in place. “We are her tools; we till Her earth and plant seeds for Her future. It is not for us to say if the weeds feel anything, or deserve to be uprooted. We only look to the Glorious Bounty that Her harvest will bring.”_ _

__Aziraphale _growled._ It was that, or try to bury his fingers in Sandalphon’s smug face. He wasn’t, by his Nature, violent. But those beady eyes fixed on him lit a fire in his chest that he couldn’t quench with words._ _

__“You speak of Her children with contempt. Their failings are our failings. If they are imperfect, then who should be blamed?” That was dangerous talk and he knew it, but his eyes were full of that swirl of red and gold, and Imamiah’s wounded, beaten expression. “You speak of them as if they were nothing, but She made them. How _dare_ you?”_ _

__Uriel sighed, her tone impatient. “I will not stand here and explain our roles to you, as you already know the score. This is a waste of our time and of yours. We know you had no part in this, Aziraphale. It’s obvious. Of the two of you, you stand with hands shaking like a child. Look at his.”_ _

__Aziraphale glared hard at the woman, defiantly into the shallow depths of her emotionless eyes, before he glanced at the ground. Imamiah’s hands were splattered up to the forearms in bright gold blood and fresh mud from the vineyard. Humiliated, the man tried to shift to hide himself from Aziraphale, but the Archangel holding him shook the spear roughly, setting him back down on all fours in the dirt._ _

__“Now tell me,” she threatened, “between the two of you, which do you think is actually capable of action?”_ _

__The Principality dropped to his knees before Imamiah, dismissing the others, feeling mud swirl around his bare shins and chill him._ _

__“Whatever they do, or say, you work within Her grace. Within your nature,” he said urgently, eyes only for the man he called ‘brother.’ Knowing he shouldn’t - _mustn’t_ \- he reached out to touch Imamiah’s cheek._ _

__Rumbling in anger, Uriel twisted her grip on the spear and hauled Imamiah down and backwards, dragging him away in the mud as Sandalphon stepped up and took hold of Aziraphale. “You should know better,” the thug snickered, pinching him tightly as he fixed him in place. “Can’t go breaking all the rules now, can you?”_ _

__Sandalphon was immovable. His grip was cold, constricting iron in the tender muscles of Aziraphale’s wings, and the chill seemed to pierce his back like the antithesis of the warmth he’d felt from Imamiah. Aziraphale answered with a sob, half grief, half humiliation, watching Uriel pull the other Principality away unhindered. “One day, Cherub. One day, there’ll be a reckoning. I won’t forget this…” It was no threat at all, delivered with strengthless, tearful frustration, but he knew as soon as it was out of his mouth that he should have kept silent._ _

__A grunt of indignation met the back of his head and then suddenly a sharp blow connected with the centre of his back, directly along his spine between his wings. Aziraphale dropped into the mud, his face blessedly turned to the side as he gasped for air. Spots danced in his vision, clouding his sight, though even totally blind he would have felt the mountainous man striding proudly away from him. Shaking his head roughly, the Principality tried to stand and winced, only managing to lift his head and prop himself up on a shaking arm._ _

__Uriel paused to wait for Sandalphon, her tempered gaze flicking over to the mess he’d left in the pathway. “This shouldn’t be much paperwork,” she drawled, wiping a stream of rainwater from her brow and unconsciously leaving behind a shimmering gloss from Imamiah’s blood. Indicating Aziraphale, she smirked. “Just negligence of duties, out of ignorance.”_ _

__Lightning blasted the earth some miles distant, then again, a little way to the east. With each strike, the rush of water grew louder and the ground took on a steady, heart-deep vibration that mirrored the thunder above. Aziraphale moaned, and folded away his wings, though their throbbing didn’t diminish in the otherspace. He hitched one knee up and struggled to all-fours, feeling his mud-soaked robe clinging slickly to his skin._ _

__The Archangels watched, apparently content to remain a little longer to enjoy the show. Between them, Imamiah hung limply, temporarily subdued. The older Principality stared at them, rain sheeting over his face, and felt a twist of movement beneath his palm. Another shoot, this one pale and wormlike, was trying to force its way between his fingers, streaked with mud. All at once, he wasn’t aware of the cold._ _

__The air felt solid, as if he could curl his fingers into it to pull himself upright. He got one foot beneath him, swaying, and then the other. The slender stem rose with him, turning as it sprouted, thickening and growing dark, seeking his hand._ _

__“Look at that,” Uriel smiled serenely. “There is some amount of fight in him. I thought Principalities weren’t capable of it, given they came After.”_ _

__Sandalphon snorted. “He’s not capable of anything, just stubborn.”_ _

__“I’m not so sure,” she intoned with curiosity and venom, looking on in smug satisfaction as he began to stagger towards them with a heat in his eyes that the Archangel hesitated to believe made her question her own authority. Gesturing succinctly to their captive, she drawled, “Say your goodbye then, if you are so determined. It will be quite a good, _long_ while before anyone sees this… renegade angel again.”_ _

__Leaning on the staff he’d raised, Aziraphale moved doggedly forward with the rain in his eyes, his sodden robe slapping wetly against him in the gale. It didn’t matter. He thought of the quiet moment outside his old, familiar home. The painless snap of force as Imamiah’s hand first touched his wrist. And he filled his lungs with the cold, storm-saturated air and tasted only _sweetness.__ _

__Aziraphale sought that warmth within himself, that feeling of the tide, passing back and forth like a shared breath. It was a mosaic of a thousand years of humanity, of small glances and lingering touches. Of the fond exchanges of families and the passionate whispers of lovers. It was the all-accepting, wide-eyed love of a baby for its mother, and the fierce, deep protectiveness of a parent cradling their child. This, too, was a weapon._ _

__He drew it like a flaming sword from himself, and stepped closer to Imamiah._ _

__The Archangels exchanged sideways glances, feeling an energy shift the air. Nothing like this sensation had ever suffused their souls with such intensity. Though they stood on the edge of it, like a hand at the tempting edge of a candle’s heat before the burning began, and they felt their nerves begin to weaken. Sandalphon scowled, his guile rising, though he was unmoved. They could only watch as Aziraphale struggled forward and bent down._ _

__Stirring, Imamiah propped himself up on his elbows and coughed wetly into the earth, his hair matted in thick ribbons of blood and muck, hanging like a curtain around his face. With labored slowness, he lifted his gaze up to see the older Principality standing above him, hunched and reaching for him. His eyes slid out-of-focus as he tried to stand, but the pain was too great. Groaning, he hung his head back down._ _

__Through the whipping wind and cascading rain, his words were barely heard, though Aziraphale seemed capable of marking only their sound: “I… I’m sorry, brother.”_ _

__“All that you did, you did because you are good.” Even the storm couldn’t break through the short span of air between them. Aziraphale let his makeshift staff fall aside as his hands rested on Imamiah’s shoulders. “You’ve nothing to apologise for.” If the Archangels had reacted, he hadn’t noticed and suddenly didn’t care. His only focus was the kneeling angel, and he parted the barriers between them and let the love that coursed through him out in a deluge._ _

__The broken angel froze and locked, every muscle in his body seizing as divine love flooded into him like a torrent of hot, inescapable steam. He twitched and his fingers dug into the earth at the overwhelming ecstasy. A strange sound like the high, faint tinkling of glass shards rattling in a bowl reached Aziraphale, and he drew his eyes up long enough to see Uriel’s spear vibrating between Imamiah’s trembling wings. He shielded his eyes just in time as the spear shattered into a thousand pieces, raining stardust slowly, mythically around the man._ _

__A languid, gentle sigh escaped him as Imamiah gradually got to his feet. Oblivious to the sheets of rain and to the pains of his wounds, he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, drawing him in and closing his eyes as Imamiah hid his face in the crook of the man’s neck. The tide rose within them as the love Imamiah felt for the Hosts, the people of the First Kingdoms, and for this moment, with this person, spilled forth into that sunny pool between them._ _

__With that flow of love, Aziraphale could feel the sharp, raw edges of Imamiah’s pain. He rocked his palm lightly against the hollow of the younger angel’s back, feeling a ripple run through the energy that enveloped them both. The wounds began to close, dwindling like the last embers of a fire. Deeper in were other hurts, not just of the fragile corporation, but of the spirit. There was guilt, and sorrow, and those were harder to heal, but he would at least try._ _

__“My dear, you did all you could. Whatever Heaven’s judgement, I forgive you.” He laid his hand on the back of Imamiah’s head, holding him close, knowing that their time was short. The Archangels were close enough to touch, although the feeling of their presence felt like nettles against his skin. Aziraphale looked up, marking each of them in turn._ _

__“But not _you._ ”_ _

__A crack of thunder ripped through the storm, centering on the joined Principalities as a force of wild energy uprooted Sandalphon and Uriel, hurling them back through rows of grape vines. The Archangels crashed and crumpled against a pile of vegetation and posts, staring dumbfounded at them, shaken. Looking at one another for confirmation, Uriel helped Sandalphon to his feet and produced another spear, her dark eyes slit with malicious intent._ _

__Aziraphale stared them down, gritting his teeth and clutching the man protectively as though he could will that gentle ocean of love to surge and strike out again. But as they bore down on them, weapons drawn and stances taken, he felt Imamiah stir. The angel drew himself back up to stand before Aziraphale, arms locked tightly around him, taking his fellow Principality’s gaze away from the oncoming danger. A small, gentle smile brushed his face._ _

__“It will be all right,” he murmured. “You have so much still to do. Let me protect _you_ now.”_ _

__“Imamiah…” Aziraphale searched his face, and came up with more questions than answers. Then he felt the arms about him loosen, and, reluctantly, he let his own fall away, the warmth between them undissipated._ _

__The Archangels flanked Imamiah, but Aziraphale noted with a tiny flicker of satisfaction that they did not lay their hands on him, for now. Uriel lowered the tip of her spear, pointing it at his own midsection._ _

__“Step back, Aziraphale. You’ve had your tender moment. Now stay out of our way.”_ _

__Aziraphale returned his gaze to Imamiah, and only when the younger Principality gave the smallest nod did he do as he was bidden._ _

__“I’m with you, little brother. Here, or Above, you have me with you.”_ _

__Imamiah’s face split with a radiant smile as he laughed, and echoed, “And I am with you, my beloved brother.”_ _

__A flash of lightning bloomed in the sky, and then another. The light poured down, centering on the Archangels and their captive, holding them in place. Time seized in that moment, freezing the churning storm and the howling winds as the two men lingered in one another’s gaze for as long as possible._ _

__And then the three were gone, replaced by bright ghost-silhouettes in Aziraphale’s eyes. The rain hammered on, though he no longer felt its force. The sounds of the storm deafened his unhearing ears._ _

__Something bumped against his leg, and he looked down. The water was ankle deep, whipped into sharp crests by the wind. The staff he’d drawn up from the ground was floating beside him, nudging him like an anxious dog, and he bent, starting to feel the cold air peel away the last of Imamiah’s warmth. He grasped the staff, planting it beside him in the swirling mud. He contemplated his wings, but the buffeting gale warned against it, and where would he go? He should have been gone a week since, and translocating across the deepening waters seemed hazardous at best. Breathing might not be a necessity, but when the rolling flood began to uproot trees and buildings and stir them like fish stew on an open fire, how long before he was crushed or swept away?_ _

__He took a breath, because that’s what a human would have done. At that moment, he felt as far from the angels as he had ever been as he started up the slope towards Noah’s home, and to where it overlooked the Ark beyond the hillside._ _


End file.
